Cerulean
by FangIsFexcellent
Summary: Iggy can see. When he's in his arms, Iggy can see...something.


**Yes, another depressing oneshot from Fex. This one was kind of written as a present to Miss Sophie, my anime buddy who is in love with Figgy...it's not specifically Figgy but I guess you could think of it that way. I refuse to accept that Iggy is straight. He is not. -_- it just isn't possible. Anyway. Enjoy!**

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Knowing a blinding, piercing pain in your eyes.

Disjointed thoughts.

Panic.

Sight?

No sight.

No sight ever.

No sight ever again.

That's what happened. I remember it exactly.

Tears?

Sure.

But what good are tears if you can't see them blur your eyes?

I know my eyes are blue. I touched them once to make sure. It hurt, but I had to know—they're a pale, cornflower blue, clouded over. I suppose I'm grateful that I can feel colors, but underneath the gladness I feel a terrible pain for the knowledge. Because what good is knowing colors if you can't see them? Feast your eyes on rich scarlet and beautiful, expansive cerulean? Knowing Fang's hair is black is just fine. But what _shade _of black? Is it pitch? Midnight? Deep or dark? Maybe it's the same color of the never-ending blackness behind my eyes.

If you've never seen the world, can you really live?

The flock, my friends, siblings, my eyes. They don't know the hurt that dwells in my heart...they don't understand it either. I don't expect them to—I mean, unless any one of them went blind, then there really would be no true way to understand. And I don't wish this agony on anyone. Not my worst enemy. Not Jeb, not Dr. Hans. Certainly none of my family. I'd gladly go through it all again to save any one of them from this pain, because I know it now, so can it hurt me again?

Yeah. It can.

But that's beside the point.

Really, one of the only things I truly regret about my life so far is that I can't see my flock. I saw them when I was eight, sure, smaller versions of what they are today, and Angel had just barely been born. I remember her as a baby, but she's almost two-thirds my height now, and when I touch her curls _(gold), _I want to know what they look like. Max is only a few inches shorter than I am, and Fang says she's beautiful. I wish I could tell if things were beautiful. I can touch them, I can feel them...but I can't see them.

Someone brushes against my side, and I intake a breath as I recognize him. I smile and greet him in my usual way, and I hear him greet me back. The thought flashes that I want to see his expression, his eyes staring at me. And I feel some sort of longing deep in my chest, not for the colors or the sight, but something else—something primal, sweet, mindless. Max says that peoples' faces tell you everything you need to know about what they're thinking, feeling, wanting...I wonder if his face looks the same as mine. Does he feel the invisible pull too, though it doesn't seem normal? Does he want his lips on mine as much as I wish for mine on his? As socially unacceptable as that might be. Or does he realize my temptation and simply keep the disgust out of his voice, leaving it on his face because there's no way I'll know?

We're alone. It feels like hours, days before he speaks, uttering no more than a few words. This feels wrong, but right, but so very wrong. I twist a strand of hair between two fingers. I wonder what my hair looks like. It feels long and shaggy and light, but I don't know how it falls, or how much it would obscure my vision if I had any. There's so much I don't know, and my forced ignorance almost chokes me, taking hold of my throat and wrenching a dry sob-cough out of my chest.

He's concerned, and I don't want it. I don't want anyone to know how I feel. He puts a careful arm around me, and I wish I could throw it off without looking awful. Despite that, it feels warm, comforting, substantial. Nothing in my world has substance, not even when I'm mixing something slowly in a bowl, feeling it blend and mix under my careful stirring. I'm floating in space, with no way to determine where I am or where I'll land.

Then he puts both arms around me, and I feel the tears I can't see film over my eyes and spill over. I'm against his collarbone, the hollow underneath his throat the resting place for my forehead. I can feel his tired breath, both in his chest and wind on my hair. It's not comfortable, it's not natural, and it feels more right than anything right now. His hands are against my back, pulling me closer, warm heat radiating from them, and I can't help lifting my head and wishing I could see his face, so close to mine, see his lips part when he breaths out, though I can feel the air on my cheek. It's not enough, and I want to _feel, _I want to get away from myself, I want to be able to see something other than darkness behind my eyes.

So I close my eyes, and then the gap between us, and something explodes behind my eyelids: something colorful, wild, and animalistic, something beautiful and raw. I know that he's beautiful, and I know that I am on the earth, landing exactly where I'm supposed to be in his arms.

For the first time in years, I _see _something. I don't see it as in view it...but I know it's there. It's on the horizon, and I can see it clearly.

_He's there. I can see him. _


End file.
